Saturday, September 24, 2016

slate.

we are of the same delicate
and brazen soul
hatched on this plane, assigned 
to wander the landscape as
silhouettes before dawn 
longing for more

we are lost and asked 
to be found 
and you smell like perfect
harmony, the chords 
you hum bind me to your bed
return me to that 
Monday, every day

I still cannot bring myself 
to wash my clothes 
I can see you clearly
pleading to be 
healed, begging to be 
heard, though shaman 
to shaman, you must
know already the rituals
and stereotypes we 
supplant, yet

I am still on the other side  
it is not by chance, or 
happenstance that we stood
hovering above time a 
soundtrack already chosen
if you would just open 
your hands to let me in 

5 comments:

  1. Yours is a generous offer, one from the heart. Who could resist such?

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  2. I was responding to a reply to one of my comments on a different poem and got lost in Googleland, trying to find myself and my blogger identity. I was explaining that a tongue-in-cheek comment that you scare me meant to convey that your talent and brilliance are daunting. Your poetry so often seems born from my emotions, experiences, and personal issues, which I suppose is either a sign of my narcissism or that the concrete and original details of your writing lift it beyond personal and into wide-sweeping relevance to life. Your poems remind me of my dog, Bubba--one solid beautiful muscle that still performs airborne dance.

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  3. Donna, thank you, my dear friend. We are all just having a human experience, after all...

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  4. You're so welcome, Heather.

    The comment posted twice, so I deleted one.

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